


MR# 1430155

by blueink3



Series: Tumblr Prompts [5]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Declarations Of Love, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Pre-Slash, Sherlock is out of his depth, So is John, Talks of Parentlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-26
Updated: 2016-06-26
Packaged: 2018-07-18 10:47:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,560
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7311934
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blueink3/pseuds/blueink3
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John paces the length of the not inconsiderable hallway and glances at his phone for the tenth time since he exited the hospital room seven minutes ago.  </p><p>Sherlock’s last text was sent at 5:06pm. It is now 5:39pm. He should be here by now. After all, his daughter is 46-minutes-old and if John is going to share this momentous event with someone, it sure as hell isn’t going to be the woman who just gave birth to her.</p>
            </blockquote>





	MR# 1430155

**Author's Note:**

> For a prompt from @verybritishdreams: The way John looks at Sherlock after he put his newborn child in his arms for the first time. Not without reassuring him before that, no, he won't break her.

John paces the length of the not inconsiderable hallway and glances at his phone for the tenth time since he exited the hospital room seven minutes ago.  

Sherlock’s last text was sent at 5:06pm. It is now 5:39pm. He should be here by now. After all, his daughter is 46-minutes-old and if John is going to share this momentous event with someone, it sure as hell isn’t going to be the woman who just gave birth to her. 

“Come on, you berk. Where are you?” he murmurs, mindful of the amused look the nurse at the main desk is giving him. It’s maternity - he’s sure he’s the least of the odd things they’ve seen.

He scrolls through the texts again and takes comfort in the responses he can hear so perfectly in that clipped, haughty tone. 

**Mary’s in labour.**

**Are you at the**  
**hospital? - SH**

**On the way.**

**Mycroft is sending men.**  
**They’ll be stationed in the**  
**ward. She won’t know**  
**they’re there. - SH**

John remembers the choked little laugh he gave at the thought of Mary not noticing something. It’s a miracle their insane plan made it to this stage. 

**Won’t she?**

**John, the baby will**  
**be fine. - SH**

**You don’t know that.**

**I know _you_. You would **  
**never let anything happen**  
**to her. - SH**

He tears up again, even upon rereading the words for at least the seventeenth time. He blames it on the emotion of the day, but he knows it’s a weak argument. After all, it’s not like Sherlock to get sentimental, but it’s been different lately.  _He’s_ been different - putting John, and by proxy John’s child, above all things. Even an experiment involving a particularly exotic strain of flesh-eating bacteria. 

 **She’s here and she’s**  
**perfect. Where are you?**

Within minutes of the child being placed in his arms, he knew the moment was incomplete. Mary was staring at him with an affectionate if wary expression on her face as he cradled their daughter, but his estranged wife was not the person he needed by his side. He escaped the room and immediately sent that text, frowning at the lag in response, because John would bet his life savings that Sherlock had been staring at the phone, just waiting for word. 

**You want me there? -SH**

John’s heart clenches yet again as he rereads the shock between words.

 **Of COURSE I want you here.**  
**I need you. Please.**

**On my way. - SH**

The security doors open and his head snaps up to find a Holmes, but not the one he’s been waiting for. 

“Mycroft?” he asks, bewildered, because the sight of Mycroft Holmes in a maternity ward is not something one sees every day, but then his stomach plummets. “Oh God, Sherlock. Did something – ?”

“Sherlock is fine,” Mycroft assures with a raised hand. “Merely suffering through rush hour traffic on a Monday. I told him to avoid Trafalgar.” 

John breathes easier. “So he’s on his way?” 

Mycroft pins him with a look. “Did you honestly think he wouldn’t be?” 

John swallows, because of course he didn’t. He asked Sherlock to be here and Sherlock assured he was coming. And by now, John is pretty sure the madman would do anything he asked just because a particular broken down Army doctor was the one pitching the question. 

John stuffs his phone back into his pocket and lets out a shaky breath, shoulders slumped. “I’d hate to be his cab driver,” he chuckles because if he doesn’t laugh, he will crumble under the sheer weight of everything sitting on his shoulders. And sobbing in front of the British Government is not on his agenda today, though he’s pretty sure (given the circumstances) Mycroft wouldn’t hold it against him. 

“No indeed,” Mycroft agrees with a small smile, before he sobers. “The hard part is over, John,” he murmurs with an uncharacteristic hand on the shoulder.

“Is it?” he asks, because there’s now a child involved. An innocent tossed in the middle of their little domestic melodrama and John has never felt fear like the sheer terror he experienced not an hour ago when his daughter was placed in his arms and his brain immediately rewired itself to acknowledge a new center to his universe.    

“This will all be over soon.” 

John nods at Mycroft’s words, unsure if he truly believes them. They’ve been so close for so long, just waiting for the arrival of the little girl in her plastic bassinet in the nursery next door. John doesn’t want to let himself believe that this nightmare could almost be over. The rope will tighten around Mary and then John and his daughter will… what? 

Go back to Baker Street? He hadn’t allowed himself to think of a future that went down that path, but… perhaps it could. They’re  _so_  close. 

 _Sherlock Holmes and a baby._ John rubs his forehead, chuckling at the image. _It could happen._

Mycroft no doubt knows exactly what John is envisioning which explains the amused smile that looks almost natural on his pointed features. It’s wiped away though by a text he receives a second later from one of his minions at the front. 

He shows it to John a moment later and it merely reads, **Incoming.**

John is about to ask what on earth  _that_  means, but his suspicions are confirmed by a large crash that sounds outside of the maternity ward’s security doors followed by an indignant “Unhand me!” 

John barks out a laugh before the joy sours in his mouth as the enormity of the moment settles heavy in the pit of his gut. 

He’s about to introduce the two most important people in his life to each other and he’s honestly not sure which one will scream first. 

Frankly, his odds are not on the baby. 

He holds his breath as the doors open and Sherlock stands there, imperious even in his worry. And he is worried, despite what he’ll say, if the pinch of his brow and the length of his gait is anything to go by.

The minute Sherlock claps eyes on John, though, that concern melts away into something… inexplicable. Mycroft must see it too, because he clears his throat and steps aside as Sherlock approaches, giving them some semblance of privacy.

“Is she all right?” he asks and John swallows hard as he nods and smiles.

“Perfect.”

The breath whooshes out of Sherlock at John’s reply and he clasps his hands together in front of him. “Good. And Mary?” he asks, though they both know that’s not where Sherlock’s concern lies.

“Fine,” John replies and they leave it at that. He steps forward and places a shaking hand on Sherlock’s bicep. “I’m glad you’re here. Really glad.”

Sherlock’s mouth quirks. “Wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

Something warm blooms in John’s chest as he digs his toe into the lino. “Right, well, we need to get you a bracelet – ”

“What? Why?” Sherlock looks alarmed by the idea of jewelry so John holds up his own wrist to show off the plastic band wrapped around it.

“The number on here matches the number around the baby’s ankle. You’re going to be here a while and we don’t want them thinking you’re stealing her.”

“So I would – ”

“Match her,” John finishes and Sherlock’s mouth shuts with a click. “It’s just for security,” he assures, but he has a feeling it goes much deeper than that.

The wristband, plastic or otherwise, essentially binds them all together – a not entirely unpleasant thought.

“Okay,” he acquiesces and John nods, leading him over to the still-amused nurse at the desk. He has a sneaking suspicion she reads the blog and knows _exactly_ who they are.

Sherlock’s ID is handed over and scrutinized. It’s not policy for anyone outside of the parents to get bracelets, but exceptions are being made and John is grateful.

The flimsy piece of plastic is clipped around his wrist and Sherlock brings it up eyelevel to examine what it says.

 **Baby Girl Watson**  
**DOB 16/2/15 @ 16:53**  
**MR# 1430155**

John ignores the flutter in his chest at knowing the number on that band matches the one on his own.

“In here, I think,” Mycroft says as he leads them to an empty hospital room, nodding at the man stationed next to the door.

Sherlock has gone rather quiet and John eyes him as he waits for his daughter to be brought in. Mary was asleep when he left her, having given the baby a brief cuddle and confirmed that John wasn’t going anywhere. He’s not sure if she’s awake now. All he knows is that he wants this moment as far away from Mary’s prying eyes as he can get.

Mycroft leaves the room, but doesn’t stray far, taking up the post on the opposite side of the door. He supposes he should be grateful that the British Government cares enough to involve himself in relatively low-level footwork. Then again, Mycroft does always put family above all and John is slowly coming to the realization that he has been a part of that small inner circle ever since the man kidnapped him, asked him “Might we expect a happy announcement by the end of the week?” and somehow deemed him worthy. And now John’s daughter is no exception to that particular place of honor.

John smiles fondly and scratches the back of his ear as he and Sherlock, who keeps glancing at the door as if to clock any means of escape, are finally left alone.

“You all right?”

Sherlock whips around, caught. “What? Yes. Are you?”

“Fine. Perfect, actually,” John murmurs, stepping a bit closer, but leaving a decent amount of room between them. He’s been using that word a lot recently. _Perfect._

“You’re a father,” Sherlock blurts out as if the thought had only just occurred and John is smiling so hard, his cheeks hurt.

“I am.”

“Bit of a responsibility.”

“Yes. Well, so is godfather,” John smoothly replies and Sherlock’s lips pop open when he actually registers what’s been said.

“Godfather?”

“Well, obviously you’re her godfather. If you’ll have her.”

Sherlock blinks for a solid ten seconds, before replying, “I think the most pressing contingency is whether or not she’ll have _me_.”

Before John can address that, the door opens and a nurse wheels in a small plastic bassinet carrying the most precious of cargoes. “Here we are, Dr. Watson.”

“Thanks, Angie,” John replies, making a point to know all of the nurses names even though maternity is not a ward he spends much time on.

John smiles down at his daughter as he listens to the door shut, clocking Sherlock’s hovering presence just next to his shoulder as he too peers down and cocks his head, a perplexed expression on his face.

“Is she supposed to be that tiny?"

“Yes,” John chuckles. “Be rather hard to get her out if not.”

Sherlock hums and continues to stare, but keeps his hands firmly clasped behind his back. “She has your nose.”

“Poor girl.”

“And your eyes, which is lucky.”

John glances up at that, but the taller man seems completely sincere as he continues to stare at the baby, who seems quite content swaddled in her white hospital issued blanket, complete with pink cap. John’s honestly not quite sure what to do with the compliment, but his heart is racing enough to suspect he feels happier about it than a mate necessarily should.

Then again, they haven’t been ‘mates’ for a while now.

John pushes the thought down deep and reaches out to scoop the tiny bundle in his arms, mindful of her head. “Hello, love,” he whispers when she makes a disgruntled noise, before settling in the crook of his arm. She’s small enough that her feet barely reach his palm and he cradles her against the cotton of his shirt, wondering how on earth he got so lucky to make something so incandescent.

Sherlock inches forward again, close enough that John can feel his breath on his face. “Does she have a name?”

“Not officially.”

“But you have one for her,” Sherlock replies and it’s not a question. Of course it isn’t, because he knows John better than John knows himself. Of course he has a name for his daughter. It’s just not down on public record yet.

John holds his breath, because quite possibly everything important in his life hinges on what’s about to come out of his mouth: “Charlotte Sherlock Rachel Watson.”

Silence.

He waits patiently, because Sherlock does things in his own time, and sure enough, his audible exhale is followed swiftly by his shaky inhale.

“Quite a name you’ve burdened her with.” His voice is hoarse and John smiles fondly.

“Burdened her?” He glances up, well aware that tears cling to the corners of his eyes. “Oh I’m pretty sure she’ll wear it as a badge of honor. She's earned it.”

And if Sherlock’s lower lip wobbles, John makes no comment as the world’s only consulting detective turns his back to hide the emotion on his face. His shoulders shake, but his sobs are quiet, letting loose only a sniffle here and there. A minute passes and John lets him have it because her name is not the only thing they’ve earned. They’ve earned this moment and every victory, loss, joy, and ache that brought them here.

Sherlock finally turns when he’s composed, though his red eyes betray him. John swallows and lowers his head, placing a kiss on his sleeping daughter’s cheek, wishing he could just bundle them both away and protect them from every bad thing in this world.

But that’s not how it works, despite what Uncle Mycroft thinks.

“You want to hold her?” he asks quietly, hoping not to spook the man who seems so utterly wrong-footed by the evening’s sentiment and, sure enough, his eyes go as wide as dish plates, as if John has just asked him to run the London Marathon.

“No I don’t think – ”

“Come on,” John gently urges. “Hold your goddaughter.”

Sherlock’s mouth opens and closes, the retort getting lost somewhere in between. “Okay. But I don’t – ”

“I’ll show you.” He steps forward as Sherlock sheds his coat, followed by his suit jacket, knowing that his shirt is the softest of the material he’s wearing. John loves him a bit for that. “Okay, crook your arm – yeah, just like that – and she’s going to fit right there.” The handoff is slow and gentle, and John is pretty sure that Sherlock has stopped breathing as he lets go, leaving his daughter in the arms of the one man he’d trust with his life. Her life, too, come to think of it.

Sherlock finally inhales when asphyxiation becomes too real a possibility and he fingers the plastic bracelet around her ankle, the one whose number matches the code wrapped around his wrist.

“Just hold her head and you’ll be fine.”

“That easy?” Sherlock asks, and John can hear the teasing tone in his voice.

“That easy. Until her next nappy.”

John has never seen Sherlock’s head snap up as quickly as it does and he bursts out laughing at the look of sheer horror on his face.

“Relax. I won’t subject you to that. But don’t think you’re getting out of it altogether.”

Sherlock picks his jaw up off the floor and glances back at the child whose eyes have now opened thanks to John’s laughter. “Wouldn’t dream of it,” he replies, letting the girl wrap her tiny digits around his finger.

“See? You won’t break her. She’s durable.”

“Of course she is. She’s a Watson.”

John doesn’t remind him that she’s half Morstan as well and he suspects Sherlock’s omission was deliberate. In fact, Mary’s name has been absent from the entire conversation because, right now, this is just for them.

“John, she’s beautiful,” Sherlock whispers and John gives him a watery grin.

“She is, isn’t she.”

“Look what you made,” he says, voice full of awe, and John truly wonders if Sherlock is only now grasping the concept of the miracle of life. Sure, the biology of it is all well and good, but to see it in person – to hold it in your arms – is something else altogether.  

The baby, Charlotte, is staring at Sherlock so Sherlock stares back, finger still firm in her surprisingly strong grip. He’s started gently swaying back and forth, whether he knows it or not, and John swallows hard as he takes out his phone and surreptitiously snaps a picture.

“What now?” Sherlock asks after a moment and John shrugs, deciding to make the photo his mobile background when Mary is no longer a threat.

“I don’t know. Mycroft has a plan.”

“He usually does. And he usually only tells it to you piecemeal.”

“Quite right,” John agrees, throwing a halfhearted glare at the man still standing sentry outside the door. “Soon, though, I think. It’ll be over soon.”

Sherlock finally tears his gaze away from the baby, looking just as lost as he did when John first placed her in his arms. “And when it’s over?”

John smiles. He’s had this answer ready for quite some time. “We come home.”

Sherlock blinks again and John curses his ability to turn his face into an indiscernible mask. He can’t get a read on the man at all and before he can even make an attempt, Sherlock’s phone pings in his pocket and the detective, miracle of miracles, ignores it completely.

 _Idiot,_ he curses _._ He should have asked. Should have added, “If you’ll have us.” Just inviting himself back home, with a _baby_ no less, is a bit of a tall order. Babies are loud. Babies are messy. They come with accessories that need to be swapped out nearly on a monthly basis. Sherlock’s lifestyle really only has room for one catastrophe at a time and his catastrophes are not usually the child-friendly kind. _John Watson, you moron._

The phone pings again and John clears his throat, taking the out he’s been given. “Want me to get that?”

Sherlock narrows his eyes and returns his gaze to the baby in his arms, effectively ending the conversation. “Not interested.”

“Could be important.”

“Don’t care.”

John has to swallow around the lump in his throat, but he pulls Sherlock’s phone out of his pocket anyway and in doing so, dislodges a receipt, which flutters to the floor. He picks it up and is about to hand it back, but the store name at the top catches his eye: **Mothercare.**

Frowning, John quickly clocks that the text is from Lestrade demanding pictures before returning to the list in his hand:

  * Dual Locking Multi-Purpose Latch
  * Dual Guard UK Socket Covers – 8 Pack
  * Energy Absorbing Door Stoppers – 2 Pack
  * Dual Locking Drawer Latches – 4 Pack
  * Dual Locking Appliance Latch
  * Energy Absorbing Corner Cushions – 4 Pack



“Sherlock,” he breathes, eyes scanning the list once more that seems to go on and on. “You spent nearly fifty quid on baby proofing equipment.” He unfolds the receipt. “And another hundred on nappies, bottles, and formula.”

Sherlock freezes, the baby snuffles, and the soft rocking stops.

The receipt shakes between his fingers and John’s heart hammers against his sternum as he slowly raises his eyes to the man across from him once more.

“Sherlock?”

“Just in case,” he replies, softly, like a great burden has just been lifted.

“In case what?” John knows, but he needs to hear it. Needs to hear it more than he needs air at the moment.

Sherlock inhales and meets his gaze head on.

“You came home.”

Oh.

The “If you’ll have us” was a bit unnecessary then.

John steps forward before he even registers doing so and wraps his arms around Sherlock, mindful of the baby between them. He threads his fingers through his hair and tugs him down until their breath mingles and their foreheads press together.

“You want us? Both of us?” he asks, because he needs to be sure; they’re a packaged deal now. But Sherlock laughs against his lips, like the question is too preposterous to answer. “Babies are loud, Sherlock.”

“I don’t sleep.”

“They’re messy.”

“Have you met me?”

“They’re a long term commitment.”

“I did purchase toilet training pants, though there may be a better brand in two years’ time.”

John leans back and just stares at the enigma of a man in front of him. The man who jumped off a roof and came back from the dead, just because John asked him to. “You really mean it.”

“Of course I do,” he retorts.

“Even her?”

Sherlock huffs in exaggerated sarcasm. “She’s you and I want all of you.”

“All of me,” John repeats and he watches Sherlock’s eyes widen first at the unintended implication and then darken.

“Yes.” The long fingers of his free hand take hold of John’s left and his thumb rubs over the wedding ring still there. “In time.”

 _Oh._ Yes. Okay.

John leans up and presses a lingering kiss on the taller man’s forehead, sharply inhaling as his lips touch that porcelain skin. It’s new, it’s frightening, and it’s utterly fucking brilliant. “In time,” he agrees.

Sherlock opens his eyes and a mischievous smile plays on his lips. “Soon,” he amends.

John grins, remembering Mycroft’s words. His plan. His assurance. His promise.

“Soon.”

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Cover Art for 'MR# 1430155' by blueink3](https://archiveofourown.org/works/7388437) by [missmuffin221](https://archiveofourown.org/users/missmuffin221/pseuds/missmuffin221)




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